


up is down

by eberbae (dustyjournal), nuuclears



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (sort of), 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyjournal/pseuds/eberbae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuuclears/pseuds/nuuclears
Summary: Five ways 1988 could have been pirates (and one time they were just themselves).





	up is down

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably make a great deal more sense if you've watched the PotC movies, but hopefully can stand alone. Please see end notes for detailed warnings.
> 
> Thank you to our lovely beta hatrickane, and to allthebros for running the reel_1988 fest (and indulging our many extension requests).

_i._

 

It’s dark below, as he feels certain it always is, but the warm light of the spills golden over Jonathan’s skin, revealing him whole and perfect and alive, a sweep of soft brown hair falling over a brow furrowed in concentration as he wraps linen over his palm. Patrick knows he stares, but he cannot help it - hungry for the relief overtaking the sick dread that he feels he’s held so long, since first news of the capture, the blind panic that he remembers settled over him like a heavy mantle seeing Jonathan, his sweet, proud Jonathan, shoved before Kesler and those vile men, and the wicked knife bared before his chest. He feels, as if for the first time in so long, he can finally draw a breath.

The frustrated grunt that Jonathan mutters as he struggles to bind his own hand though draws Patrick’s attention quickly enough.

“Here, let me,” he offers, already reaching out before he can think better of it.

Jonathan relinquishes the task easily enough, and Patrick wraps the bandage round as gently as he can. Jonathan’s palm is large and so warm between his, and it strikes Patrick that surely this must be the most contact they’ve had since they were children, innocent of the differences in their station and the propriety that comes with age. The thought is enough to make him fumble, the binding pulling tight to make Jonathan hiss in sudden pain.

“Sorry,” Patrick winces, carefully keeping his eyes to task. “Blacksmith’s hands. I know they’re rough.”

Jonathan snorts softly. “Patrick,” he admonishes gently. “Though you have certainly rescued me, you must know I am hardly a delicate maiden.”

And Patrick knows it to be true, can feel it in the calluses on his fingers as he brushes over them. They’re not so rough as his own, perhaps, not borne of hard manual labor at the forge and anvil, but still present, speaking to hours spent on swordplay and shooting, and holding heavy reins.

“I suppose not,” he says, offering a wry smile in apology, tying the wrapping and making to pull away.

Jonathan quickly turns his palm though, catching at his fingers. “No, please,” he says, voice rough. Patrick looks up at him finally, uncertain at his meaning.

And then finally, as if with difficulty forming the words, he asks “keep going.”

Patrick blinks, knows he is wide-eyed, as he cautiously strokes his fingers along the edge of Jonathan’s palm, looking up into dear, brown eyes. He wants-he has always wanted, but…

Jonathan smiles at him, a hopeful look, and Patrick cannot help but let his thumb sweep out, caressing his tanned wrist, the delicate blue veins he is so relieved to find still pulsing with each heartbeat, and then up higher, a strong, bared forearm. And, when Jonathan nods, he lets his hand drift higher higher still, over a thick bicep and broad shoulder. The dirt-streaked linen shirt has fallen open at the throat and Patrick is fascinated by the red flush rising above it, moves to feel if it is as warm to touch as it looks. 

Their heads dip dangerously close and he freezes, caught, when he sees Jonathan’s dear face only inches from his own. A breath fans across the distance between them, and he wants so desperately to press up, finally close all distance between them and end this strange dance, let Jonathan claim his mouth once and for all -

But then Jonathan’s grip on his arm tightens, and he leans back to pull something - a chain - over his head.

“It’s yours,” he says holding it out to Patrick.

It’s the medallion, the wicked piece of gold his father had sent him so long ago.

“I thought I’d lost it,” he tells Jonathan, reaching out to take it as if in a dream, noticing for the first time the swaying of the boat.

And then, the thought coming to him slowly: “Why did you take it?”

“Because,” Jonathan says, almost choking on the words. “I was afraid you were a pirate. That would’ve been awful.”

Patrick’s heart aches to see Jonathan’s face so distressed, but he cannot give it much thought, too occupied with thoughts of his father, his blood, the blood tied to a curse, that he slams the gold down on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says, and then he’s standing, leaving, heading above deck, and Patrick can only watch him go, squeezing his hand around the medallion until he’s sure the pattern has imprinted on his skin. 

The boat rocks, and the candle sputters, his thoughts going as blurry as the edges of his vision and then...

 

_ii._

 

Patrick isn’t sure how he’s holding on to life right now. He’s bleeding out from the gash in his stomach, mind dizzy with even the thought of calling for help. Who would come back if he did so is a whole other story.

He knows the pool is right behind him but he’s not sure if he can make it. But he must try.

With a burst of energy, he rolls himself to his front and starts inching towards the calm, clear water. It’s pure agony with each brush of the ground against his body and the stretch of his skin. He eventually makes it and immediately starts gulping the water down. It does little to calm the fire in his abdomen but quenches his parched throat.

He’s not sure if it’s the dizziness that causes him to miss the movement below the water, but all of a sudden there are dark, wide eyes staring back at him.

“Patrick, you are alive,” Jonathan says wondrously in his thick, French accent.

A spike of anxiety shoots through Patrick, briefly distracting him from any other worry he has. “Jonathan, you must get away from here! It’s not safe.”

Jonathan’s mouth sets into a deep frown as he reaches for Patrick’s forearm. Something about the touch calms Patrick down; he’s not sure if it’s Jonathan himself or some merman magic, but he’s grateful for it.

“I can save you, Patrick. Let me save you.” Jonathan’s voice sounds almost like a plea, like Patrick betraying him is something of the distant past.

“I do not need saving, Jonathan. I will soon be with Him,” Patrick says, but his voice is shaky. They both know that Patrick isn’t ready to pass on, will do anything to persist, to know Jonathan more than the brief time during their capture together has allowed. He adds, more solidly, “you must return to your brothers, your sisters.”

Jonathan beats his tail under the water, and Patrick is momentarily entranced. Jonathan is a being that Patrick hadn’t even known existed until Blackbeard had announced that they were off to catch one. And then Jonathan had saved Patrick from being crushed by the tumbling tower, a self-sacrificing act that had exposed Jonathan for capture.

Jonathan is good. He deserves a good life, and Patrick’s is soon going to come to a close. It would not be fair to Jonathan, the stunning being whom Patrick has come to love, to attempt to save the humble life of a priest.

Jonathan puts his cold hand to Patrick’s cheek. “I can save you, Patrick. You need only ask.”

In all his service to this beautiful Earth, Patrick has never seen anything more perfect than Jonathan’s eyes, mouth, everything. All Patrick can ask for is for Jonathan’s peace.

“Forgive me,” Patrick whispers.

Jonathan pulls Patrick under the water, towards the light.

 

_iii._

 

The blazing sun is unbearable even behind closed eyes, a relentless reflection off the blazing hot sand beneath them and the endless sea all around. This is not how he planned things at all.

Patrick isn’t much one for regrets, but he is beginning to regret this, seizing this ill-conceived rescue as his opportunity. Surely there must have been easier ways to get the Pearl back without involving _civilians_ \- civilians who had the tendency to make stupidly noble plans that involved Patrick marooned _again_ on this godforsaken scrap of land.

At least there's rum. And, if he’s being honest, Jonathan.

Except that Jonathan is currently nursing a sense of betrayal on behalf of his idiot best friend for something that isn't even true, and honestly, if everyone could just shut up and stick to the plan, none of them would be in this predicament. Still, Jonathan is tall and broad, handsome even in his fury and desperation. He is, Patrick must agree, exceptional. Patrick almost can’t blame Seabrook for - still idiotically - sacrificing everything for this man, one who is so loyal that even stranded on a desert island with only marginal hope for survival still thinks of staging a rescue.

“But what about Brent? We must do something!” Jonathan insists, and Patrick wonders what it would be like to have that fierce loyalty for himself, and for the first time he can remember, feels that if things were different, perhaps he’d be willing to try. Jonathan already seems to nurse some unshakeable sense of faith in his capacity for miracles, but though he hates to disappoint, there’s not much to be done for it. Time for the boy to learn the cruel realities of the world, perhaps.

The bottle of rum he rolls to Jonathan is as much of a concession as he’s willing to make. 

“To Brent Seabrook,” he toasts, and he does wish the fool the best.

He is surprised when Jonathan picks up the bottle and settles next to him, giving up so easily, but perhaps he shouldn’t be. Jonathan is smart and clever, and certainly more practical than his friend, and surely the hopelessness of his situation must be apparent to him.

He’s surprised again when later, after the liberal application of rum, Jonathan breaks out into a credible rendition of the classic pirate songs, but he won’t let it happen again. It is exhilarating to dance, arm and arm around the fire, stars spinning around them, and Jonathan’s eyes dark and fervid, white smile splashed across his face, until they collapse together into the sand.

Between the firelight and the drink, stripped of his proper and elegant garb, his hair tousled by the wind and the earlier dip in the surf, Jonathan looks almost wild, and it’s easy to imagine him not as the respectable governor’s son, but as a fearsome pirate lord.

“The most fearsome pirates in the Spanish Main!” Jonathan declares, leaning into his shoulder, and Patrick wants. They could sail together forever, Patrick thinks, corrects him, “the most fearsome pirates in the _world_.”

And he’s never explained this really to anyone, but suddenly desperately, he wants to make Jonathan understand.

“That’s what a ship is,” Patrick tells him, and though the rum slurs his words, he must say this. “It’s not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails - that is what a ship means. But what a ship is, really is, is freedom.”

Jonathan meets his eyes, and holds them as the sky spins above them, and as the black finally overtakes him and he falls into sleep, Patrick thinks maybe it is Jonathan of all people who might truly understand.

 

_iv._

 

It all happens so fast. Too fast. 

Patrick has it all laid out in front of him, so easy to use as he pleases: the key, the sword, the chest, the heart. He has bested the formidable Davy Jones. 

And then Jonathan catches Patrick’s eye and Patrick feels the overwhelming love that he had been pushing down for years crest like the largest wave he has ever ridden. 

“Ah, love,” Davy Jones sneers, forcing Patrick and Jonathan to break gaze. “A dreadful bond. And yet, so easily severed.”

And then he plunges his sword into Jonathan’s heart, and the world stops spinning.

Patrick’s mouth goes dry. He can see Davy Jones advancing from his periphery, but his gaze is fixed on Jonathan, the way Jonathan’s mouth went from an “oh” of shock to slack.

Someone tackles Davy Jones away. Patrick doesn’t care who he has to thank, he only cares about getting to Jonathan. He collapses next to the brave pirate, the headstrong blacksmith, that has been at his side (whether he has wished for it or not) for many years.

“We can...there must be a way…” Patrick mutters as he looks wildly at the sword protruding stiffly from Jonathan’s chest. 

Jonathan makes a choking sound, and Patrick takes Jonathan’s face into his hands.

“Jonathan, hold on, hold on for me, please,” Patrick pants. The light in Jonathan’s eyes is fading though, and fast. 

“Pa-trick,” Jonathan coughs out. Maybe it’s Patrick’s imagination, for he is only realizing this for himself, but it sounds fond. The kind of fond that Patrick would sacrifice anything for. 

Patrick looks for his sword but cannot see it. However, on Jonathan’s belt is that silly knife Jonathan always carries around. He grabs it without a thought, though Jonathan makes a startled noise in protest.

Patrick looks up momentarily to see that Davy Jones has bested his opponent - Jonathan’s cursed father. There is no choice here, not really. Patrick prays - prays, him, Captain Patrick Kane - that it is not too late. 

He wraps Jonathan’s limp hand around the knife and guides it as forcefully as he can into the heart of Davy Jones. 

It is like the world stops spinning for Davy Jones, now, as he stumbles to face them, his eyes wide and crazed. His mouth moves to whisper something, and then he is falling over the railing into the treacherous water. 

The crew begins to advance, chanting something Patrick cannot hear over the whistling wind. The weather begins to calm, though, and he can almost discern what they’re saying. That is, until he’s being pulled back, away from Jonathan, by some of the crew. 

The reality of what he has done sets in. He - he has doomed Jonathan to an eternal life that the good man has never asked for. 

All because Patrick couldn’t stand the idea of life without him. 

He realizes he must leave. The shock makes it easy for him to flee the ship, back to the safety of the Pearl. 

What becomes of Jonathan, he can only hope for the best, as he hits the familiar wood of the deck.

 

_v._

 

The walls of the hull groan around them in their prison. It is late, very late, and Patrick is starting to lose hope, though he will not show before his newly acquired crew. He was not prepared for this meeting, so soon after another loss.

Then Jonathan shows up at the cell door, still in full dress, to engineer their escape. He is still angry, so angry, but Jonathan’s face is pale and drawn in the lantern light, bone-deep weariness settling heavily onto his frame, and he looks at once everything and nothing like the proud officer Patrick had one time known so well.

There is no time to consider it though, not as they’re hurrying up from the brig as quick and quiet as possible, no need to mention the need for absolute stealth as they narrowly escape the attention of the Dutchess’s mutant crew and the wary eyes of the sailors - under Jonathan’s command, perhaps, but certainly not willing to overlook the wrath of Lord Bettman at a whole crew of pirates escaping under their noses.

It’s not til they reach the ropes and the rest of the crew scurries across that Patrick pauses. There is no time, not really, every second wasted tempting discovery, but. But.

“It's too late to earn my forgiveness,” Patrick says, and when Jonathan pauses his fumbling with the ropes, he sees that knowledge reflected in heavy in his eyes.

“I had nothing to do with your father's death, I swear it,” Jonathan says, low but urgent, dark eyes meeting his. “But I must answer for my other sins, I know.”

Patrick cannot believe, truly, that Jonathan would ever allow his father’s death, and looking at him now, he is sure of it. Not to say he’s forgiven him, because knowing or not Jonathan picked his side long ago and he should bear that burden. But Patrick remembers, too, summer days in his youth, Jonathan chasing him round the fort, never too busy with his duties to spare a minute, Jonathan’s strong hands guiding his on the hilt of his wooden practice sword, always patient. Looking up into his dear face as Jonathan assures him desperately and fervently that he had no knowledge, Patrick cannot help the desperate longing that rises up.

“Come with us,” he says, and before he can think better of it, he's reaching under his shirt to pull out the chain.

The ring glints where is dangles between them, and Jonathan inhales sharply, eyes darting between it and Patrick's face.

“I - you kept it,” he says, voice shaking as he reaches up to touch it so gently

Patrick swallows hard and makes no direct reply, his heart aching.

“Jonathan, come with us,” he urges and suddenly it seems the most important thing. He doesn't know what's coming, but Jonathan must - he cannot leave him.

Jonathan is still staring at the ring, opens his mouth, but then:

“Who goes there?” Someone shouts from above, and there's no time.

“Go,” Jonathan hisses motioning frantically at the rope, already turned to face the stair. “Go, and I will follow.”

Patrick searches his face, sees the panic he's trying to hide. “You're lying,” he accuses, his own panic rising.

“Our destinies were always intertwined, but never lay together,” Jonathan tells him. “You must go, now!”

There's footsteps on the wood planks now, almost to the stair, and there's no time, but Patrick looks upon Jonathan's dear face and he must - he presses forward, his mouth finding Jonathan's for one brief moment, a finality to it that scares him, and then Jonathan is pushing him away helping him to the rope.

“Go!” he urges, and there's boots on the stairs, so Patrick crawls as quickly as he can along the rope. Maybe if he's fast enough, Jonathan can make it.

He's halfway across, dangling above the waves when he looks back and sees it: Jonathan, alone, silhouetted in the lantern light, facing down the sailor closing in on him with drawn sword, and he cries out, but then the rope’s cut and he's falling, crashing into the sea.

It's dark and cold, and his heavy clothes drag him down as he struggles to the surface, screaming for Jonathan as soon as he breaks into the night air, hand scrabbling at his chest for the chain and he cannot see the deck and the ring is missing and -

 

_+_

 

Patrick jolts awake, gasping and clutching at his chest. He's disoriented, almost able to smell sea spray and Jonathan had - he'd. But he blinks, and no he's just in his bed, their bed, with Jonny tucked in close and warm beside him. His hand clasps the band hanging on his chain, its weight a comforting reminder as his heartbeat slows.

It was all just a dream.

Patrick settles back in, but Jonny has already woken up. His arm tightens around Patrick's chest and he hums in question.

"Just had a weird dream," Patrick mumbles. "It's okay."

"Mmm, 'kay Peeks," Jonny grumbles, pulling Patrick even closer.

Patrick smiles and vows to never marathon all of the Pirates movies again.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Major character death is implied or hinted at in some scenes, but occurs within the context of a dream, and is not in any sense 'real'.
> 
> You can find us on tumblr as [eberbae](http://eberbae.tumblr.com) and [nuuclearshow](http://nuuclearshow.tumblr.com)!


End file.
